Ice on Fire
by Jedicren
Summary: "Her skin was so soft, so warm. His body was ice on fire, melting into hers." Takes place the morning after 7x07. Jon and Daenerys wake to find themselves in new territory and must navigate the journey to Winterfell and face the unknown news that awaits them. A multi-chapter fic.


Chapter 1

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The pale pink sky was visible through the window. The bright rays of the morning sun crested just above the horizon and small dust particles danced above the bed, caught by the light. This was the first thing Jon Snow noticed as he opened his eyes. The ship rocked gently, nudging him from sleep. His eyes slowly adjusted and he turned his head to look at his bedfellow, still sleeping peacefully, her silver hair splayed across the pillow, her right arm draped lazily across his chest.

Jon breathed in the scent of her hair, her skin. He watched the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest and admired the soft swell of her breasts. Recalling their slow, purposeful lovemaking of the previous night, he felt himself harden under the thick blankets. Granting himself only a few more moments of contentment before slipping out of bed, he slowly untangled his legs from hers and stood.

There was a chill in the air. He moved toward the window quietly, the floorboards squeaking under his bare feet. There was a layer of frost on the glass. He rubbed his fist across it so he could see through.

 _Water_.

 _We must be far beyond Blackwater Bay,_ he thought. No land was visible through the window. From the sun's position on the horizon, he guessed it was early morning. They had been sailing for at least twelve hours. They would likely be rounding The Fingers soon enough, passing by Baelish Keep, the previous home of the late Petyr Baelish. He had received a raven from his sister, Sansa, the eve before. She had briefly described the chain of events that had led to the man's demise—by Arya's hand. His father had always stood by the belief that you couldn't pass sentence without also being the executioner. He hated to admit that he felt a sense of pride that Sansa and Arya had also stayed true to this piece of Eddard Stark.

Jon felt the air shift behind him and he hid a smile. Daenerys rose quietly from the bed and crossed the room in a few soft steps. He turned to see her bright eyes searching his, the thick fur blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders. He was suddenly aware of his own nakedness. Gooseflesh erupted down his arms like small volcanoes and whether it was from the cold or from her proximity, he wasn't sure.

Daenerys closed the space between them with two small steps and nuzzled her beautiful face into his chest. He closed his eyes and kissed the top of her head lightly, allowing himself to be pulled into the blanket, his body pressing against hers. Again he felt the swell of his cock, rising to the occasion. They stood, entwined together at the window for a few moments before she pulled back slightly and fingered the scar across the left side of his chest.

"What Ser Davos said at Dragonstone… was true." Her face was gentle. "You did take a dagger through the heart."

He watched her fingers slide across the dagger mark. He nodded.

"How…" she stopped. Looking up at him, her face was puzzled. "How did you survive this?"

He cleared his throat. "I didn't." His voice was husky, thick with the betrayal of his comrades.

Daenerys leaned forward and softly brushed her lips across the scar before moving to his neck. Her arms wrapped around his back, pulling them tightly together under the fur. "Our pain," she breathed into his ear, "Only makes us stronger."

Jon had spent the past few weeks fighting his desire, pushing it away from the surface. For the second time in less than a day, he allowed himself to be pulled away from the war. Away from the Night's King, away from the army of the dead, and away from his responsibility. He lifted her off her feet and cradled her buttocks, carrying her swiftly to the bed, the blanket dropping uselessly to the floor. Her mouth was on his, her fingers tangled in his curls. Bending, he lowered her down onto the mattress, planting light kisses down her neck, collarbone, and pausing briefly to suck her nipple before continuing south.

He heard the sharp intake of breath as his mouth and tongue found their way to the soft folds of skin between her legs. He worked carefully, following the cues of her body with a precision he had not known he possessed and just as she neared the edge of the cliff, pulled back.

"Please," she breathed, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling him up toward her.

He kissed her deeply, tongue probing her mouth, thumb rubbing her jaw. She ran her hand down his spine, dropping her knees to allow him entry. Unlike the night before, when their movements were careful, he slid inside of her in one swift motion. She omitted a noise that was half exhale, half dragon's roar.

Jon had never in his life felt so alive. In battle—even with Ygritte—he always felt like he was holding a part of himself back, afraid of letting go completely. In this moment though, his senses were exploding. Her skin was so soft, so warm. His body was ice on fire, melting into hers. She met every thrust halfway and pulled him deeper inside with a hand on his butt. Entwining his fingers with hers, he pinned her right arm above her head. Their eyes met. He heard his own voice whisper her name hoarsely before they fell over the edge together.

A few minutes went by before either spoke.

Jon rolled over and looked at the cabin ceiling. "So that's what I've been missing."

Daenerys turned to face him, propping her head on the palm of her hand. Her eyes were wide. "You mean you've never…?"

Jon chuckled. "Never with a Targaryen Queen."

She smiled and pushed herself to a seated position, dangling her legs over the side of the bed. Looking at him over her shoulder, she said, "And I have never shared a bed with a Northern King." Standing, she pulled a thick gray gown from the trunk at the foot of the bed.

They dressed without further conversation. As Jon laced his boots, there was a soft knock on the door.

He and Daenerys exchanged a look.

"Just a moment," she said, an air of authority suddenly in her voice.

Crossing the room in one stride, she pulled her long hair over a shoulder and turned so that her back was facing Jon. "Will you lace me, please?" she asked. "Quickly."

"I've not spent much time… lacing up bodices," he said, hands fumbling with the delicate ties. At the bottom, he secured it with a square knot.

"Missandei will see to it later," she replied. Turning to face him, she offered a small smile before moving toward the door.

"Daenerys," Jon said.

She looked back. Her hand was on the deadbolt, ready to return to the outside world.

"This was…" he searched for a word but found none. "Something," he ended.

She nodded. "Indeed." Pulling the deadbolt back in one motion, she freed the door with a load noise and opened it. Standing on the other side was Ser Jorah Mormont.

"My Queen," Jon heard him say.

Daenerys stepped back and allowed him access to the cabin.

Jorah moved forward and at once realized that Jon was there too, standing a few feet behind Daenerys. "Lord Snow," he said, a quizzical look on his face.

Jon, for his part, tried to keep his expression blank. "Ser Jorah."

Daenerys clasped her hands in front of her and turned to look at Jon. "Thank you for your counsel, my Lord. I will take it under advisement."

Jon dipped his head. "My Queen," he said as he brushed past Jorah Mormont and exited the room. Halfway down the hallway, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Taking the steep stairs two at a time, he was on the deck in less than a few seconds, the cold wind in his face. A few snowflakes floated down in front of him. He felt the familiar sting as one melted on his cheek.

"Jon," said a voice.

He turned to see Tyrion Lannister approaching him.

Jon nodded a hello.

Tyrion looked him up and down for a moment. "You're looking… refreshed this morning."

Jon kept his face neutral and shrugged. "Must be the weather," he said, looking up at the sky. "The cold reminds me of Winterfell."

Tyrion's gaze was unwavering. "Interesting," he said finally. "I agree that the Starks belong in the North… away from things that are… hot."

Jon looked back at Tyrion, searching his eyes. He knew something, had _seen_ something and was voicing his unsolicited opinion. "Well that's just it, my Lord," he said carefully. "I'm not a Stark then, am I?" Without another word, Jon turned and walked away, leaving Tyrion standing alone on the deck.


End file.
